Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar
The variety of dress indulged in, however, by the crowd of officers was outrageous as well as mirth-provoking.
“Why it seems to me,” said Mark, “that every officer may put on what seemeth right in his own eyes! I see old regimental red coats and pantaloons; hats and shakos that must have been worn a hundred years ago. I even see what looks at this distance like naval uniforms and cocked hats, and no two of them seem to be dressed alike.”
Mark looked inquiringly at Laihova as he spoke, but that dignified native merely smiled, and made a slight inclination of his head, as if to say, “Just so, that’s the way we do it here!”
“Why do they let civilians mix wi’ them?” asked Hockins, pointing to a particular part of the field.
“To keep ’em cibil, I s’pose,” suggested Ebony.
“Where?” asked Laihova, with a puzzled look.
“There—don’t you see ’em? Fellers all in black—with bell-toppers—beavers—chimney-pots on—I don’t know what you call ’em here.”
“Them be officers too,” said Laihova.
And this was true, for the higher grades of officers usually appeared at drill in a full suit of black cloth, with the common black silk hat doing duty as a helmet, and contrasting oddly enough with the rough home-made scabbardless sword, which was carried naked in the hand.
On some occasions, as our travellers afterwards learned, these regiments turned out in every variety of costume, with coats, hats, vests, and trousers, of all colours and patterns—as if they had been got up by an extensive dealer in old clothes. This passion for variety even extended to the officers of the palace, with whom, however, the material was of the best as well as gayest—for they were all gorgeously clad in blue and scarlet cloth; and velvet, with gold and silver lace, embroidery, feathers, etcetera,—but what nation, even in the so-called civilised world, is free from barbarism in this respect?
One pair of eyes beheld this review on that Friday with something of fiendish satisfaction. These belonged to no less a personage than Queen Ranavalona herself. High up on the balcony of her palace she sat under the shade of a scarlet umbrella.
That very day she had had an angry interview with her Prime Minister, Rainiharo, in reference to her only child Prince Rakota, who was a young man of mild gentle disposition, as kind to the Christians as his mother was cruel and unjust. Indeed it was believed that he himself was among the Christians, for he dared openly to defend them before his mother, and often protected them secretly from her violence. Rainiharo, the Prime Minister, on the contrary, was their bitter foe, and in his interview with the Queen above mentioned, had ventured to accuse the prince of aiding in the protection of those who practised the proscribed religion.
The one redeeming point in the character of Ranavalona was her love for this son. When asked to punish the prince for his conduct, she would say in tones of tenderness that seldom issued from her lips, “Is he not my son—my only son?” Alas! she had little pity for the son or daughter of any one else, whether “only” or otherwise!
The dress of Ranavalona, as she sat in her balcony under her scarlet umbrella observing the troops, was gorgeous, but the greater part of it was hidden under the voluminous folds of the scarlet lamba of finest English broad-cloth with which her person was enveloped. Here and there, however, portions of a rich silk dress of European manufacture could be seen, as well as various gold and silver rings, bracelets, chains, charms, and ornaments of ivory. Scarlet being the royal colour, only the Sovereign is entitled to wear the scarlet lamba or use the scarlet umbrella. The Queen’s lamba was ornamented heavily with gold-lace. Her head was not much decorated, but her hair was anointed with that hideous horror of the sick-room, castor-oil! the odour of which, however, was disguised, or rather mixed, with a leaf which smelt like nutmeg.
“I will submit to this no longer,” said the Queen, with a stern frown. “Have I not said it? Is the will of Ranavalona to be thwarted?”
This remark was, in the conversation above mentioned, made to the Prime Minister, a stern old man, dressed in a scarlet coat with huge gold epaulettes, and profusely braided with gold-lace, blue pantaloons, also gold-laced, and a magnificent brazen-sheathed sword. He stood at the Queen’s elbow with a perplexed expression of countenance, being the bearer of news about the effect of which he felt uncertain. But Rainiharo was a bold man as well as a bad one.
“Your will, madam, is sure to be thwarted,” he replied, “as long as you suffer Prince Rakota to act as he pleases. Your son is a Christian. He prays with the Christians and encourages them in this new doctrine. We are lost if your Majesty does not stop the prince in his strange self-willed ways.”
“But,” repeated the Queen, “he is my son—my only, my beloved son! Let him do what he pleases. If he wishes to be a Christian, let him—he is my beloved son!”
“But, madam,” urged Rainiharo, who hated Rakota, “if your son resists your will what becomes of the Government? I know that Rakota—”
“Cease to speak to me of Rakota,” interrupted the Queen, impatiently. “He is my son, I tell you. I love him. Let him alone—he will not disobey me.”
“Prince Ramonja, it is said, has also joined the Christians,” continued the minister, with a slightly cynical expression.
“Is this true?” demanded Ranavalona, fiercely, while she seemed to grind her teeth in wrath.
“I have reason to believe it.”
“Let inquiry be made, and if it proves to be true,” said the Queen, sternly, “let Ramonja be deprived of all his military honours, reduce him to the ranks, and fine him heavily.”
“But he is your own nephew, madam,” returned the Minister, simply, yet with a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
“It matters not. It is of our mercy that he does not die, as many others have died before him. Let my orders be obeyed if Ramonja is guilty. Let him be a warning to others in the palace, for it has come to my ears that some of our courtiers are hankering after this religion that seems to have turned my people mad. Indeed it is said that some related to yourself are among them.”
She looked pointedly at Rainiharo as she spoke, and the prime minister winced, for he had lately discovered that his own son was among the number of the “praying people.” Recovering himself in a moment, however, he merely said that he was not aware of any of his kindred having fallen away from the customs of their ancestors.
“I hope not,” returned the Queen, darkly, “for degradation and slavery, if not death, await them if they do. Go. Let a proclamation be made to-day in the market-place. Let my people and the army know that I have resolved to extinguish Christianity. Tell those officers who have become Christians, or have taken any part in religious teaching, that they shall lose their honours. They have transgressed my laws and deserve death, but through the supplications of the people of Imérina their lives are spared. But their honours, I say, shall be thrown into the river and carried over the cataract of Ifarahantsana, for they are trying to change the customs of our ancestors. Of some, half the honours shall be thrown into the river. Of others, one-third of their honours shall be thrown in, and some shall lose all their honours; the precise number shall be in proportion to their offences. Moreover,” continued the angry woman, as she worked herself into a state of great wrath, “there must be no more praying; no more psalm-singing among my people; no more—”
She stopped suddenly and listened, while the veins in her neck and forehead seemed to swell almost to bursting, for at that moment the clear notes of a sweet female voice came from some distant part of the palace and broke softly on her ear. There was no mistaking the nature of the music, for the Queen had long been familiar with the music of the psalms in which the “praying people” were wont to sing praise to the name of Jesus.
“Who sings?” she asked, with a fierce look at Rainiharo.
The prime minister again gave vent to a very slight touch of sarcasm as he replied, “I think it is Rafaravavy.”
This time the queen noted the tone, and sharply ordered her minister to be gone and do her bidding.
Now, Rafaravavy was a lady of the palace, as we have said, and a great favourite with her royal mistress, but the queen’s affection for the girl had been severely tested since the latter showed symptoms of a leaning towards the Christian religion. It is probable that Ranavalona would have cared little as to what her favourite thought about Christianity if she had only kept quiet, but Rafaravavy was one of those earnest straightforward souls who are prone to act in accordance with their conscientious beliefs without regard to consequences. She did not indeed go about endeavouring to proselytise the household, for she was naturally timid, soft-hearted, and meek, but she made no attempt to conceal her opinions and her sympathy with the persecuted Christians. She had even gone the length of interceding for them once or twice when she found her mistress in an amiable mood, but the explosion of wrath which resulted warned her not to presume again in that way.
For some time Ranavalona sat brooding over the mystery of that religion, which, notwithstanding all her power and cruelty, she had, after so many years of tyranny, been unable to suppress. Then she sent for Rafaravavy.
The girl, who in a few minutes entered her presence, was possessed of no ordinary beauty. Her delicate features and oval face were much lighter in complexion than those of the other ladies of the court, resembling rather those of a Spanish brunette than a Hova beauty. Her eyes were large, soft, and lustrous; her nose was straight and thin, and her mouth small, with an expression of habitual gravity which made her smile, when it came, all the more attractive. Little wonder that poor Ravonino had lost his heart to her, for, besides beauty of countenance, the girl was endowed with a sylph-like form, a sprightly disposition, and the sweet grace of humility.
“You have disobeyed me, Rafaravavy,” said the Queen as she entered.
“Forgive me!” answered the girl in a low musical voice. “I did not think my song of praise would reach your ear. It was meant only for my God and Saviour.”
“Is your God then deaf, that you must sing so loud?” asked the Queen, sharply.
“He is not deaf, blessed be His name!” exclaimed the maiden, with enthusiasm, “neither is His arm shortened that it cannot save. Oh! if you—”
“Stop!” cried the angry Queen, “you have presumed to talk to me thus too often. You deserve to die for singing psalms. Have you given up praying since I forbade it?”
There was that in the voice of Ranavalona which alarmed the girl, and caused her to tremble as she replied, with some hesitation, that she still prayed.
Instead of giving way to another burst of passion the Queen adopted a bantering tone, and said—
“Come, Rafaravavy, tell me what you pray for.”
“I pray for the pardon of my sins.”
“Is that all? Surely you pray for something more than that. Something nice that you want very much.”
“Yes,” continued the girl, becoming somewhat pale, yet praying silently for courage even while she spoke. “Yes, I pray for the pardon of—of your sins, and—”
“Go on! Why do you stop?”
“And that your eyes may be opened that you may ‘see the King in His beauty,’ and be drawn to Him by the cords of love, so that you may cease to persecute the Christians and learn to join with them in praising the name of Jesus who redeemed us from destruction, and is ready and willing to save us from our sins.”
While Rafaravavy was speaking Ranavalona put her hand over her eyes. When the former ceased, she did not remove the hand, but said, in a tone which the poor girl could not quite understand—
“Go! Enough. Leave me!”
As Rafaravavy left the balcony, a prepossessing youth of delicate form and gentle mien emerged upon it by another door.
“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “do, do give me leave to recall your proclamation. I have just heard of it from Rainiharo. Believe me, many of the nobles are not so good—I mean so guilty!—as you think. And the poor Christians—why should they not pray and sing? It is all that you have left to them, for they no longer dare to worship together in the churches.”
“No, Rakota, I will not recall it. Your constant pleading worries me. It is enough to say that the people shall be examined—by the tangena ordeal if necessary—and they shall be punished according to their deserts. Is that all that you come here for, my son?”
It was evident from her tone that Ranavalona relented a little, though her words were firmly spoken.
“I came also to tell you,” said the prince, “that the Europeans whom your spies brought news of some time ago have arrived. They are even now in the market-place. By my orders the guards have let them pass without question.”
“Always interfering, Rakota!” said the Queen, angrily. “Why were they not seized and guarded till I should find time to speak with them?”
“Because, mother, that would scarcely be a civil way of receiving strangers.”
“Strangers! Spies you should have said. Have you forgotten the ungrateful Frenchmen who so lately tried to overturn my government?”
“But these are not Frenchmen. They are English,” said the prince, “and I will answer for them being good and true men.”
“No doubt English are better than French—at least I hate them less; but they are all pale-faced liars and Christians, and none of them shall remain in my land. But how can you tell, boy, that they are good and true men? Have you had speech with them?”
“Not I,” returned the prince. “I have only seen them as they entered the town, but that was enough. One glance satisfied me of their being true men. When the sun rises it needs not much wisdom to know that there is heat and light. An honest face is like the sun. You cannot fail to know it.”
“Go, foolish boy. You are too confident. I will not tolerate Europeans. These men shall be arrested. Hence, and send hither an officer.”
Finding that the Queen was not in a temper to be trifled with, Rakota wisely made no reply, but bowed and went his way. In delivering the message to the officer, however, he whispered such words to him as secured a little delay in the execution of the royal commands.
Chapter Fourteen.
The Prime Minister lays Deep Plans—So does his Nephew—The Great Market-Place—A Friend in Deadly Peril, and our Three Heroes come to Grief
Returning to his own quarters in the palace, and chafing to find that some one had informed the Queen about his son’s defection, Rainiharo encountered a favourite nephew, named Soa, who had also, unknown to his uncle, given up idolatry, and, like Prince Ramonja, been led to embrace the Gospel through the instrumentality of Prince Rakota.
“Well met, Soa,” said the premier, “I have a proclamation to make which will bring sorrow to the hearts of some of these hated Christians.”
He paused a moment, as if in thought, and Soa, a fine-looking young man of pleasant countenance and agile frame, seemed about to reply, but checked himself.
“Now, my boy,” resumed the old man, “I have a piece of work for you to do. You have heard of the arrival of the Englishmen?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Well, I have reason to believe that they have been led hither by that son of a thunderbolt, Ravoninohitriniony, and that he is even now in hiding in the neighbourhood. At the gate you will find one of our spies who will conduct you to the cavern in which he lies concealed. Of course I could have him seized at once if I chose, but I have a deeper game to play, and want to make Ravoninohitriniony an unwitting instrument. It seems that more of the people in the palace are Christians than I knew of. It has come to my ears that some of these intend going stealthily to the cave to meet Ravoninohitriniony, for they are fond of this son of a wild-boar, and probably hope to have news by him of their banished kindred.”
Lest it should be supposed that we are putting flippant expressions into the mouth of Rainiharo, we may explain that the Malagasy define an ungrateful man as the “son of a thunderbolt,” and sometimes as the “offspring of a wild-boar,” because—so they say—the young of the wild-boar, when running by the side of its dam, continually gets in advance and turns round to bite her. The ingratitude of which our friend Ravonino was supposed to be guilty, consisted in his having forsaken the idols of the country and renounced the favour of the Queen by becoming a Christian, preferring, like Moses, to suffer affliction with the banished people of God.
“No doubt,” continued the premier, “they will be praying and psalm-singing. Now, knowing your detestation of these Christians, I have resolved to send you to their meeting as a Christian. You are wise enough to know how to act when among them. Take note of the men and women you see there, whether high or low; make out a list of them, and bring it to me. Death and chains shall be their portion, for I am fully more determined than the Queen is to stamp out this religion. Go, and do as I bid ye as quickly as you can.”
For a few seconds the youth stood perplexed and irresolute. Then he said, suddenly, “Yes, uncle, I will go, according to your bidding, as a Christian!” and hastily left the room.
Meanwhile Mark Breezy and his companions, led by Laihova, followed the throng of country-folk to the market-place. They had passed the guard at the gate by means of that potent talisman, silver, before which few gates are permanently closed. If the party had sought to pass with any pomp or circumstance, or if they had carried merchandise along with them, they could not have passed so easily; but Laihova had only to bestow some bits of silver on the guard and the way was at once clear. They might have passed without it, however, had they known of Rakota’s interference in their favour.
We speak of “bits” of silver advisedly, for the Malagasy take the simplest and most literal way of making small change; they clip their dollars into little pieces of various sizes, and therewith transact the business that in other lands is settled with pence. As these clippings are not very accurate, however, they weigh the pieces, and for this purpose every one carries about with him a tiny pair of scales in his waist-cloth. These dollars were all foreign coins, for the Malagasy at that time had, (and we believe still have), no native coinage. All silver that comes to their net is considered good fish. The standard coin is the Spanish dollar, but one will find every variety of European and American money in circulation among them. The method of clipping and weighing the small change might be thought somewhat cumbrous in European markets, for the dollar is cut up into eight sikàjy, (each about sixpence); the sikàjy into nine èranambàtra, and each èranambàtra into ten vàry-venty, each of which last is about the weight of a plump grain of rice. Four weights, marked with a government stamp, are used in weighing the money. These weights are equal, respectively, to about a half-a-dollar, a quarter-dollar, sixpence, and fourpence. Other amounts are obtained by varying these in the opposite scales and adding grains of rice. But all this forms no difficulty in Madagascar. Like most Easterns the natives there dearly love to haggle and prolong a bargain—as our travellers found to their amusement that day; for not only were the principals vociferous in their disputatious, but the bystanders entered into the spirit of the thing and volunteered their opinions!
Profound was the interest of the white men in this market, and deep was the absorption of Ebony, for that amiable negro had a faculty of totally forgetting himself and absolutely projecting himself into the shoes of other people, thus identifying himself with their interests—a faculty which cost him many anxious, indignant, pathetic, and hilarious moments.
“Das a most ’straor’nary sight,” he said, looking round with glistening eyes and expanded lips at the crowds of people who pressed along the road leading to Zomà, the great market-place.
“By the way they stare at you, Ebony,” said Hockins, “they evidently think you something ’straor’nary!”
“Not at all, ’Ockins. You’s wrong, as usual,” retorted the negro. “Dey quite used to black mans, but I tink dis de fust time dat some ob dem hab saw a man wid a face like putty.”
There was indeed some ground for the negro’s remark, for the people crowded round our heroes and gazed at them with undisguised interest.
The market-place was well suited to give some idea of the various types of countenance among the different tribes from distant parts of the island, also for making acquaintance with the products of the country and the manufactures of the people. It was a sort of museum and centre of commerce combined, with all the varied incidents, comical, semi-tragic, and otherwise, for which markets in general are more or less famed.
Here were to be seen great heaps of earthenware of red clay—pans for cooking rice, water-jars, bottles, and dishes of all sorts, as well as English crockery, especially that with the old willow-pattern design! There were great varieties of straw hats, beautifully made of rice and other straw. Elsewhere might be seen iron-work of native manufacture, some of it displaying considerable taste and skilful workmanship. There were also beds, with well-turned posts, made of a wood like mahogany, and the mattresses for these were stuffed with down from a certain flower, which made soft and comfortable couches. Lambas of many kinds were also to be seen, from those of coarse ròfia cloth to those of finer and more ornamental material—though the finest silk lambas and the more expensive European goods were not often exposed for sale there, but were to be had at the houses of the traders and manufacturers. One part of the market was devoted to wood for the rafters and framework of houses, another to the sale of vegetables and fruits—among which were sweet potatoes, manioc, beans, maize, peaches, bananas, mangoes, pine-apples, oranges, lemons, pumpkins, melons, grapes, Cape gooseberries, mulberries, guavas, pomegranates, and many others, besides bread-fruit and rice—which last is the staple food of the people.
“Oh! I say, ’Ockins,” whispered Ebony at this point, “my mout’s a-waterin’.”
“Well, mine’s somethin’ in the same way,” returned the seaman, “but we haven’t a rap to buy with.”
Whether Laihova overheard the whisper or not we cannot tell, but he stopped at that moment, purchased a large quantity of the tempting fruit, and handed it, without a word, to his friends, who received it with becoming gratitude.
“You’s a trump, Hovey,” said the negro, as he put a whole peach into his capacious mouth.
“Ditto,” said Hockins, performing the same feat with a banana.
“Do I hear music?” said Mark Breezy.
“An’ don’t I smell rum?” remarked Hockins.
“An’ doesn’t I hear cackling?” inquired Ebony.
By way of answer to all three, Laihova turned round the corner of a stall, when the party reached a spot which was devoted to the sale of native rum, or “toaka”—a coarse fiery spirit made from sugar-cane, and sold at a very low price. Here a native musician was discovered twanging a native guitar, either as an accompaniment to the cackling of hundreds of fowls and the gobbling of innumerable turkeys, or as a desperate effort to beat these creatures at their own game of noise.
On inquiry Mark found that fowls were sold at from fourpence to eightpence a-piece; geese and turkeys from a shilling to eighteenpence. Also that beef and vegetables were proportionally cheap.
“It seems to me,” remarked Hockins, as they moved slowly along, enjoying the fruit and the scene, “that this here island is a sort of paradise.”
Before many minutes were over the seaman had reason to change his views considerably on this point, for their guide led them to a spot where the slave-market was held. The sights they witnessed there were such as filled the hearts of the white men with deep sorrow and indignation, while it drew tears from the eyes of the sympathetic negro. For the men and women and children were no mere criminals who might in some sense be deserving of their fate—though such there were also amongst them,—but many of the men were guilty of political offences only, and not a few, both of men and women, were martyrs, who, because they had left the faith of their fathers and become followers of Jesus Christ, were sold into temporary—in some cases perpetual—slavery, with their wives and families.
At sight of these unfortunates Laihova was evidently much affected, though he made strenuous efforts to conceal his feelings.
“You are grieved, I see,” said Mark, in a tone of profound sympathy which touched his guide’s heart.
“Grieved! Yes—verily,” said Laihova, whose broken English was much interlarded with Scriptural words and expressions, “for does I not see my friends there? But com. They must not know me. It is danger. Com.”
He led them quickly away from the slave-market, and as they walked along he explained that some of the poor slaves whom they had just seen thus publicly exposed for sale were among the nobles of the land—not only in regard to human rank, but in right of that patent which man can neither give nor take away,—an upright regenerated soul. He further explained, as best he could, that slaves in his land were derived from three or four different sources—namely, captives taken in war; persons condemned to slavery for crime, for political offences, and for religious opinions; people who had been sold for debt, and the descendants of all of these.
They had gradually quitted the market while thus engaged in conversation, and were ascending one of the steeper parts of the city, when their attention was attracted by a shouting not far-off.
Presently they observed a number of men and boys running in and out amongst the houses and the low walls which surrounded them, as if in chase of something. Soon a man was seen to dart along the road they were following. As he drew near they observed that he stumbled as he ran, yet forced the pace and panted violently—like one running for his life. A few moments more and the crowd was close at his heels, pelting him with stones and yelling like wild beasts. The fugitive turned up a narrow lane between high walls close to where our party stood. He was closely followed by the crowd.
At this point some of the pursuers stopped as if from exhaustion.
“What has he done?” said Laihova to one of these.
“He has been stealing in the market by cutting a lamba.”
It is the practice to carry money tied up in a corner of the lamba, and thieves, by cutting off this corner, sometimes manage to secure the money.
A great cry arose just then, and some of the pursuers came running back.
“He is down,” said one. “He is dead!” said another.
Now our friend Hockins was one of those men who have at all times an irresistible tendency to take the part of the weak against the strong, without much regard to the cause of battle! He instantly, without a word, ran off at full speed to the rescue. Ebony ran after him from sympathy. Mark Breezy followed from the natural desire to keep by his comrades, and back them up, while Laihova followed—no doubt from good-fellowship!
They soon came upon the poor man, who was completely naked, bruised and bleeding, and surrounded by a crowd of youths, who were deliberately stoning him as if he were a dangerous animal or a mad dog.
With a roar like a lion Hockins went at them. He tripped up some half-dozen big boys, flattened still more the flat noses of some of the men, stretching them flat on their backs, and then, standing astride the fallen man, flourished his enormous fists, and invited the entire population of Antananarivo to “come on!”
The population refused the invitation and retired.
Ebony was not slow to follow suit, with this variation, that instead of roaring he yelled, and instead of bestriding the fallen man, he gave sudden chase hither and thither, with powerful effect, rendering the rout complete.
Meanwhile Mark attended to the injured man, who seemed to be dead. Turning him over on his back he discovered, to his inexpressible amazement, that he was no other than their old friend Mamba—the crocodile—whom they had left with his mother and the others in the cave many days before.
“How is it possible,” he exclaimed, while dressing his wounds, “that he can have arrived at the same time with us, for we started before him and have travelled fast?”
Laihova explained that Mamba was one of the fleetest men in the island, and that he could easily have passed them though starting later than they did. But why he had come, and why he had passed instead of overtaking and travelling with them, he could not even guess.
As most of poor Mamba’s wounds were bruises, and the few cuts were not deep, his four friends raised him and carried him quickly into a neighbouring house, the door of which was immediately shut. Laihova explained that it was the house of a personal friend of his own, who was also a Christian, but secretly, for fear of the Queen.
Here Mamba was sufficiently brought round by Mark’s ministrations to be able to sit up and answer questions, but at first he seemed disinclined to speak, and then gave evasive replies.
“Why this secrecy, my friend?” asked Laihova, in the native language.
“If I could answer,” said Mamba, “there would be no secrecy.”
“True, and I would not pry into your secrets,” returned Laihova, “but we would help you if we can.”
“You cannot help me,” returned Mamba, in a somewhat sad tone. “I have business in hand which requires haste. I have tried to keep clear of you to prevent delay, and to avoid mixing myself up in your dangers, for you are in danger here. I would not have come near the town at all, but I required to make a purchase in the market, and hoped to do so without being recognised. Unfortunately an old enemy saw me. He fell on the device of cutting off the corner of his own lamba, and then, raising the cry of thief, pretended that I had done it. I ran. You know my speed of foot. I trusted to that instead of trusting to my God. They surrounded me. You know the end.”
